


Hungry Ghosts

by squirrelfish



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Death, Ghosts, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirrelfish/pseuds/squirrelfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is dead, but his ghost keeps pestering James to solve his murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hungry Ghosts

James Bond awoke at 4:13 in the morning to find a dead man sitting at the foot of his bed. It wasn’t uncommon for James to be awake at this hour. The sky outside was still dark but the overbright streetlamp not far from James’ window seeped muted orange light into the bedroom through the blinds. Q was sitting at the edge of the bed with his hands clasped between his knees. Q had been dead for almost a month now. He was watching James, and the slants of light across his face revealed a neat black hole in the middle of his forehead. A trail of blood dripped down his nose.

“It wasn’t a suicide, you know,” Q said.

James lay back down, covering his face in one hand. He’d had a lot to drink before passing out. Apparently a bit too much.

The weight lifted from the bed as Q stood. The rustle of cloth, the muffled sound of careful feet on carpet, and James could feel Q standing over him.

“It wasn’t a suicide,” Q said, not far from James’ pillow. “I wouldn’t have. You know that.”

James pressed against his eyelids until he saw stars. He felt the brush of lips on his knuckles, faint as butterfly legs but so very real.

When he woke up a second time, the sun was out and Q was gone.

 

\- - -

 

Moneypenny wasn’t at her desk when James came in, so he helped himself to her computer and also her plush leather chair. It wasn’t long before he had unlocked the documents he wanted and was poring over them. He lingered on a death certificate with Q’s infamously unflattering ID photo in the corner. Q had been 26 when the photo was taken, not much younger than the final age on the certificate.

“You’re breaking into secure government information early this morning,” said Moneypenny, entering with a coffee in tow.

“I would never underestimate you,” said James lightly. “I’m sure you have the really secure ones well out of my reach.” He gave her a vague smile. “Is that cup for me?”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t underestimate me,” Moneypenny replied. She perched on the edge of the desk and drank a healthy mouthful. “Why so nosy?” she asked, crossing her legs.

“Interesting dream last night.”

Moneypenny finally leaned forward to look at the screen. “James,” she said warningly.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“The case has been settled. There’s nothing more we can do.”

“Just reminiscing,” said James. He closed the tabs and pushed the chair back, standing and sliding his hands into his pockets in the same motion. In the end, he hadn’t found any new information, just the same files he’d reread so many times already.

Moneypenny stopped him with her knee. “Don’t lose yourself to this,” she said, meeting his eye.

James’ smile turned cheeky. “What makes you think I have a self to lose?” he asked winningly.

 

\- - -

 

_Before Q shot himself in the head, they had sex. They had rather a lot of sex, but one particular night they had sex and afterward Q turned to him, breathless and red-faced and with sweat curling the hair at his temple, and he said “If we were different people, I might love you.”_

_“And I might hate you,” James said. “If we’re being hypothetical about it.”_

_He traced his thumb over Q’s collarbone and smiled innocently. Q was still panting, his thin chest carrying James’ thumb up and down. His face was too red and his ears were too big and his voice was too breathy for a comeback to have any real bite. Instead he just laughed, airless and delightedly scornful._

_Sex with Q involved a bit more bony elbows than James normally preferred, but Q was also young and eager to impress. To put it bluntly, he was a deadpan little show-off in all aspects of his life, even the carnal ones. This was a big reason why James liked him._

_James’s thumb migrated slowly to Q’s sharp hipbone and continued its circling in a more suggestive fashion. Q kneed James dangerously close to the groin._

_“There’s no sense in overselling oneself, James,” he said, as if he had any place at all to talk. “You’re too old to get it up for another round anytime soon.” He rolled over sluggishly, revealing the pale planes and knobby vertebrae of his back. A lovely hickey was darkening just under his shoulder blade._

_“Wouldn’t want to break you,” James assented, snaking an arm around Q’s waist and nuzzling into the nape of his neck, just to bother him. The little hairs there tickled James’ nose. He could just barely smell Q’s cologne under the overpowering scent of sweat and sex permeating Q’s bed. Q made an annoyed sound but didn’t move away._

_Joke or not, they stayed that way, chest to back. James felt tired and sated, and was just considering a quick nap when Q said, without turning around, “You should stay until morning.” He sounded almost hopeful, until he added, “You put so much effort into breaking into my flat, you might as well enjoy it for once instead of vanishing into the night again.”_

_James smirked, his cheek bunching between the smile and Q’s back. “Afraid I can’t. Imagine all the other flats I‘m neglecting.”_

_Under James’ ear, Q deflated on a long sigh. He could imagine Q’s glare, but Q probably had his eyes closed now. “At least don’t go out the way you came in,” he mumbled peevishly. “My neighbors will call the police if they see strange men leaping out my window. Bloody sex burglar.”_

_“Creative.”_

_“Quiet. I’m going to sleep.”_

_James hmmed an agreement and didn’t move. He would, but not yet. Before long, Q’s breathing evened into sleep, his body languid and warm. James finally decided that yes, a nap would be nice._

_When he woke up, however, it was already the beginning of a gray morning outside the window. Q was asleep, still nestled under James‘ arm, which was numb from the odd position. It was one of the more disorienting mornings of James’ life. It was definitely not where he was supposed to be._

_He disentangled himself from the bed without waking Q (a small miracle) and helped himself quietly to the bathroom before leaving. He hesitated before swiping some stationary to leave a note on Q’s bedside table._

_“Cheers. See you at work. xx Sex Burglar”_

_He exited through the window just to be an arse._

 

\- - -

 

James made a beeline from Moneypenny’s desk to M’s office, business as usual. M was standing at his bookshelf, and gave James a thoroughly unimpressed look as he entered. “You‘re late, 007,” he said.

“Not unfashionably, I hope.”

“A matter of taste,” said M, dry as a bone. The new head’s office was more old-fashioned than the previous M’s, with a great mahogany desk and the general smell and color scheme of an ambitious sitting room. All that was missing was a fireplace. M plucked a cigar box from one of the shelves before coming to sit behind his desk, opening the box and turning it toward James in curt motions. “Can I tempt you, 007?”

“Nearly always,” said James, and accepted one. He did not light it, instead slipping it into his jacket pocket for later like a debauched handkerchief.

“Rome,” said M, who did light a cigar. “Your luck has won you warmer climes. A certain man, his identity as yet unknown, will be waiting outside a café near the Campo de’ Fiori at a designated date and time to receive a disc of internationally vital data.” M rifled through a stack of papers on his desk and chose one sheaf, handing it to James. “The exact nature of the data is also mysterious, but we do know the man who will be carrying it to the transaction point: one Carlyle Terry.” He motioned to the page in James’ hands. It was a large, candid photo of a man entering a club. He was about average height, but his face was memorable, strangely pointed as if someone had grabbed his nose at birth and pulled. His head was shaved, and a dark blue lion curled up the side of his face like a suit of arms. Terribly flashy for an international spy.

“I take it I’m supposed to take this mysterious disc from Terry before it gets to your mysterious man,” said James.

“Indeed. It’s all rather murky, but it’s a good enough assumption that where particularly deep shadows are working, the security of our organization and those of our allies is at stake,” said M. In other words: Don’t ask questions, 007. “Your plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds like a nice vacation,” said James, using his lighter to casually burn the photo. A recompense for neglecting his cigar.

“Moneypenny will give you your tickets and other details,” said M. “But all things considered, the mission should be straightforward. Good day, 007.”

James flicked ash away and didn’t leave. “I do have a favor to ask,” he said, leveling M with a dangerously blasé look.

“I’m not your father,” M said, matching him perfectly. “But I would hope to make your work experience palatable.”

James inclined his head slightly in thanks. “I’d like access to all of our files on Q’s death,” he said.

M’s expression didn’t change, but he removed his cigar from his mouth and turned it thoughtfully between his hands. “Denied,” he said finally.

“May I ask why?”

“It was suicide, 007. There is nothing in those files that says otherwise, and I believe you know that. We cannot afford to have one of our top agents chasing after ghosts.” He returned the cigar to his mouth and watched the end of it as he puffed. A sort of sadness flickered across his eyes, briefly. “I know you were close partners, Bond, but obsession will only enslave you,” he said slowly, precisely. When he looked up, the amicably bland professionalism had returned. “On the other side of the coin, you’ll also have to accept your new quartermaster eventually. The world turns quickly, 007. Enjoy your vacation.”

James smiled, his teeth clenching underneath. “Oh, I’ll love it,” he said.

 

\- - -

 

An evening fog hung along the rooftops like a sheet on a clothesline when James arrived back at his flat that night. His living room was incredibly classy at a first glance, all sleek shining black and leather chairs, but a closer examination found it to be truthfully rather utilitarian. Bond read and enjoyed many books but owned none. There were no pictures or photographs. Even the television didn’t see much use. The flat was a place for sleeping and having sex, not much else.

Tonight, James couldn’t seem to find the will for either. There were women and men he could call--he had a handful in almost every country across Europe--but James wasn’t in the mood. He also couldn’t sleep, although this he actually tried. He lay awake for hours before finally abandoning the bedroom, pouring himself a glass of wine, and turning on the television.

Many months ago, James would sit here in the living room in the armchair proper, with Q cross-legged on a laptop in the chair opposite. That was before they had any relationship chummier than business associates who more or less liked one another. Q invited himself over on occasion to check on James’ specs, and stayed to unrepentantly drink free alcohol and watch the news. The day they actually became friends was the day they finally admitted they both hated watching the news. When they started fucking, they moved to Q’s flat.

James was thinking of this, as car accidents and house fires crawled across the screen, when suddenly the television clicked off by itself. The remote was no longer where James had left it on the cushion beside him.

“You’re wallowing,” a voice told him, equal parts invented exasperation and honest melancholy.

James knew the voice, of course, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly before turning around. A steep wrought iron staircase wound up to the bedroom, and at the top of the staircase stood Q, his hand--with the remote inside of it--resting on the swirling newel post. His face was paper white, except for black blood tinting his lips and dripping from the hole in his forehead. The back of his head disappeared in a trail of wispy darkness, at one moment as liquid as the blood pooled in his mouth, at another moment closer to smoke. James’ heart was pounding.

“You’re also mistaken, trying to find anything useful in those files,” Q continued. He began to walk down the stairs, his hand gliding along the banister. “They all say I killed myself. I’ve told you I didn’t and you know I wouldn’t. What you need to focus on is this mission M just gave you. That‘s why I came to you. It‘s the timing of the thing.”

He reached the landing and stopped there, clasping his hands and the remote over his belly. James stared at a place on Q’s chest, somehow easier to comprehend than Q’s white face.

“I am trying to help,” Q said. “I’m not here just to torture you.”

“Just tell me who killed you.”

Q smiled reflexively, obviously pleased at getting a response, but his eyes remained sad. “That would be too easy, wouldn’t it?”

“Q,” James said.

Q sighed. “I don’t know the whole story either. And I’d like to. I know the man who pulled the trigger, but I’m not sure who sent him and that’s the important bit. You’re not the only one who wants revenge.”

“And the answers are related to Rome?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

That sad, dark smile again, and James was getting sick of it already. “I can’t, James.”

“You can’t bloody be here, yet here you are.”

“I’m not omniscient. I never was.” It seemed a sore spot to admit it. “Whoever is behind that disc is responsible for my death, and presumably a whole lot of trouble. I don’t know why, but if you can find the men involved, you’ll find my murderer.”

“You aren’t telling me everything. How do you know these people are involved in the first place?”

Q ran a hand through his hair, the motion causing the black ether about his head to ripple and waver. “The man who shot me had a lion tattoo on his head.”

At last he began to approach James’ chair, and a sudden coldness gripped James’ heart. Something about the way Q moved was unnatural, muffled like falling snow and strangely fluid, as if touching him would cause him to dissipate like smoke. James looked away.

When Q arrived at the chair’s side, there was no warmth from his body, no gentle sound of breath or life, nothing of those almost imperceptible tells James had learned to sense so intimately for murder and pleasure. Q set the remote on the chair’s arm.

“Goodbye, James,” he said, the sadness of his eyes finally reaching his voice. “I’ll be back.”

When James at last looked up, Q was gone again and the apartment was dark. At some point he had fallen asleep.

 

\- - -

 

Rome was warm and humid, but James still wore his suit. It felt imperative somehow, as if he were attending a funeral.

He sat outside a little sandwich shop on the Via dei Biscione, a thin cobbled street with motorcycles lining one wall, taking up the stoops of tiny shops. There were only two small, round tables squished outside the sandwich shop, only one of them occupied by James. But this seemingly placid scene was the perfect vantage point by which to study a certain café, the only somewhat large establishment on the street, perched at the corner where the Via curled into the Campo de’ Fiori, one of many bustling plazas. The café had five tables, big enough to house a considerable lunch crowd, and James had carefully examined each person sitting there. There were two young women in sun hats—tourists. A group of teenagers—locals. A man with a beard and a coffee. A businessman with the newspaper. One of these people was waiting for Carlyle Terry to appear with a disc of dangerous information.

It was comical but familiar, a stakeout occurring in secret on a lovely day, in a lovely place. James sipped his drink as his eyes roamed the café’s windows, taking in every detail. Details were important in his line of word. Details could save lives, if you paid the proper attention to them. The coffee in his mouth went bitter.

 

\- - -

 

_Months ago, James sat at another table in another café by another plaza, and he smiled because Q sat across from him, sickly and irritable._

_“You really took a ferry and a train to Italy,” James said._

_“I’ve told you, only a madman has a minor in physics and gets on a plane,” Q said, his voice dulled by a bad cold. He blew his nose into a napkin, dabbing idly at it afterwards in a strangely endearing way. He looked terrible, with dark bags under his red eyes._

_“Haven’t been sleeping well?” James asked._

_“I never do when I’m sick,” said Q grouchily. “But I wouldn’t be sleeping anyway. I’ve been working on something…” He fidgeted and looked away briefly, frowning across the square. “It’ll be ready soon, I think,” he said distantly. “But now the cold’s here to stay anyway because I‘ve been at it too long.” He tore stripes into the edge of the soiled napkin._

_“When will you learn to take care of yourself,” said Bond, all irony. “I must say, though, it’s rather romantic of you to come visit just to bring me a new radio.”_

_Q’s expression would have looked equally appropriate on a world-hating fifteen year old. “Contrary to what you might think, you do actually need those.”_

_“Contrary to what I might think.” James continued to smile as Q went over the radio’s new features, because of course Q couldn’t resist adding more toys, even in the middle of some big project. At the end of his speal, Q glanced out at the piazza again, his frown taking on a different tilt. His napkin was almost reduced to confetti by now._

_For the first time, James followed suit in becoming more subdued. Something wasn’t right._

_“Q,” he said. “You’re thinking about something.”_

_“Aren’t I always,” Q muttered, but when he turned back to James the spell was gone. He was back to himself, although perhaps slightly sadder. “I have another present for you,” he said, stuffing the massacred napkin into his pocket. From the other pocket he pulled a different bundle, a square of lens cloth which he handed to James without explanation._

_James opened the bundle to reveal a single key, with a familiar number etched in the side._

_“This is a key to your apartment,” James said, raising a teasing eyebrow._

_“I don’t want you anywhere near my window when you get back,” said Q brusquely. “It’s had a hard enough life as it is.”_

_But he watched James over his glasses, as if waiting for approval. Sometimes it was painfully apparent how young Q still was._

_James dropped the key into his breast pocket, where it sat, a faint and pleasant weight against his chest. “I’ll be happy to help you sleep, dear,” he said, smiling again._

_“Wonderful,” said Q, and without much regard for germ sharing potential, he reached across the table to squeeze James’ hand and hold it for the duration of their lunch. James didn’t mind._

_But that melancholy never quite went away. It hung in the air, thin but treacherous. Q was still thinking about something._

 

\- - -

 

A man emerged from a nookish tourist shop not far from James’ seat, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing a ski cap—quite out of place in the weather—but there was no mistaking that pointed face. It was Terry, appearing at last.

James calmly stood, leaving a gracious tip under his empty mug. Terry’s steps were purposeful, heading straight for the café James had been scoping. His rendezvous partner was smarter, as none of the café goers looked up. And James, of course, was quicker.

“Is that you Carlyle?” James said, wheeling Terry around by a firm grip on his shoulder. “It is! My, I haven’t seen you in years. Remember Jimmy from rugby?” He spoke loudly and jovially, so that passersby glanced up reproachfully. Some of the café goers looked over as well—all of them, in fact, excepting the man with the beard. So there was our rendezvous man.

Terry’s piggy eyes rolled wildly between James and the bearded man. James stood quite close to him, and quite taller than him, smiling sweetly. “I guess your memory is failing you,” he said apologetically.

Terry spun around and bolted. James let him get a momentary head start, shooting a hyper-aware glance at the bearded man, cataloguing his every detail for later, before dashing after Terry.

They rushed into the Campo de’ Fiori. The Sunday market had produced a bustling, colorful crowd that Terry plowed through desperately, shoving people out of his way like trash bags. James evaded the idlers expertly, gaining fast.

Then Terry abruptly jerked to the right, disappearing down a narrow alleyway. James barreled after him, narrowly avoiding a craft stand.

The ally was thin and clearly meant for maintenance, narrowing crookedly into a point just large enough for a man to squeeze through sideways. Terry turned and threw himself at this exit—but James grabbed him by the sleeve and threw him against the wall instead.

“I hear you have a little parcel on you,” James said, pressing the barrel of his berretta bruisingly between Terry’s eyes. Terry’s breath came in panicked, high-pitched wheezes. Finally in one jerking motion he whipped a disc out from his back pocket and handed it shakily to James.

James accepted it with his other hand, placing it gently in his inside jacket pocket, like the token of a ladyfriend. He did not remove his gun.

“I also hear you killed someone I rather liked,” he said.

Terry glared at him, but his eyes were moist with fear not anger.

“Who do you work for?” James asked coldly.

Terry spat onto his shoes. James’ gun flashed down and shot through Terry’s shin. Terry howled in pain, spittle speckling his lips, and collapsed to the ground at James’ feet.

“Who do you work for?” James snapped, pressing the heel of his patented shoe into the nape of Terry’s neck, grinding his face into the ground.

Terry gasped something unintelligible, spit and gravel sticking to his words. James pointed the gun at Terry’s back, between his shoulder blades.

“Didn’t quite catch that,” he said.

Terry glanced up, tears staining clean streaks into the grime on his face. “Think On Your Sins,” he hissed.

Memory sliced through James like a knife. A lonely patch of Scotland. A church with two dead bodies.

He pulled the trigger and Terry went limp immediately, the impossibility of his final words still sticking in the hot air.

 

\- - -

 

James Bond must have painted an odd picture later, sprawled across his well-made bed in one of the most expensive hotel rooms in Rome, fully dressed in his suit minus a few buttons, watching the ceiling fan rotate. He barely blinked, and so the fan became a single swaying circle of constant motion. After staring at it long enough, James began to feel as if his head was spinning in the opposite direction, the dissonance making him feel weightless and warped.

He could smell blood in his nose even now, and it smelled the same as Q’s had, splattered across a different bedroom back in London nearly a month ago.

James blinked slowly.

There was no sound, but somehow he knew Q was there even before seeing the apparition.

Q stood at the foot of the bed, smiling sadly down at him, the bloody smoke circling his head slowly, clockwise like the fan.

“How are you doing, James?”

James covered his face.

The weight of the bed changed as Q crawled onto it and inched closer. James didn’t know whether it was fear or need that set his heart pounding, until the cold touch of Q’s fingers brushed down his neck.

“James,” Q said, the ghostly words like an impossible breath against James’ jaw. James raised the hand from his face to reach for Q’s hair, dark as his bloody lips. He hesitated the barest moment, fingertips shivering, then cupped Q’s cheek. It was surprisingly solid. Q did not disappear. Q’s weight settled around James, pressed against his chest, and he leaned forward, kissing James’ forehead. James’ hand slipped automatically to cradle the back of Q’s head, and for a split moment he froze in horror, but he didn’t feel brain and shattered skull there. Instead, the shadows curled around his fingers, cool like spring water, and beneath it Q’s hair tickled his palm. Q’s smell enclosed him--blood and familiar cologne--and their lips met, at first a tentative touch, then bold.

Q did not taste like blood. But he didn’t taste like Q either.

“James,” Q murmured, kissing the side of his nose, trailing down his cheek. “Oh, James…”

Some sound rose in James’ throat and he clenched his teeth to suppress it, not wanting to find out what it was. Q’s palm trailed down James’ chest, the coolness of the touch bleeding through his shirt.

“James. James.”

The caresses, the smell, the wetness of the kisses now circling James’ temple, all combined to mould the unbearable, indecipherable intensity of emotions swimming in James’ chest into one recognizable urge, sinking slowly to his groin. He opened his mouth, and the noise trapped there had transformed into a low groan.

Q’s hand slid into his pants, encircled his cock. James opened his eyes, realizing they had been closed, and saw muddy green staring back at him, hot and recognizable, and he wrapped his arms tightly around this person who couldn’t possibly be Q and yet felt like him, right down to the jut of his shoulder blades, the thinness of his frame, the bony elbows.

And Q’s voice continued in his ear-- “James, James”--until James silenced him with another kiss, thorough and sweet, and for a moment James didn’t even notice the tiny elements of wrongness, the absence of Q’s breath puffing against his lips whenever they broke apart. For a moment, the line of blood down Q’s face was an unimportant detail instead of the residue of murder.

“Q,” James croaked, his fingers digging into Q’s back in a way that should have bruised. He bucked into Q’s hold and with a gasp came jarringly into his underwear. His vision blinked, and the fan still spinning just beyond Q’s shoulder seemed to wobble. But mostly James stared at Q’s face, for the first time since the ghost had appeared.

Q’s face. James had already forgotten the small details, visible only in motion and never captured entirely by memory or photograph. Q’s face. James held it between both hands, chest burning as his lungs worked to catch enough breath.

Q smiled, large and open, and blood shone in his teeth.

“You’ve done good, James,” he said, turning to nuzzle James’ palm. “There will be more hardships, but you will do good. You always do.”

James’ thumb traced the corner of Q’s mouth, but even when he touched it he could not feel or even smear the blood there. James wasn’t sure what he was about to say until it came out: “It wasn’t suicide. You wouldn’t have left me.”

“No,” said Q, eyes holding his. “Of course not, James.”

It was a revelation, and yet it only revealed what James had known all along but never allowed to be true. “I’ll kill all of them,” James said.

Q said nothing but gazed down at James a long moment, before leaning forward for another kiss.

In one second, their lips were connected. In the next second, the touch was gone.

Q was gone from James’ arms, and James was lying on his hotel bed fully clothed, his zipper undone and cum wetting his trousers.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued
> 
> This story is dedicated to Blue who is the best rp partner I ever had and who inspired a lot of this. Sorry for being the worst kind of flake.
> 
> There are some nerdy references in this story. Q's design is based on the ghost in The Devil's Backbone. There's a little wink to Inception in there too.
> 
> The scenes in Rome... oy! They are bullshit lol I've actually been to Rome but it was a long time ago, and I don't remember details so much as feelings. I tried to impart those feelings here. But in case any Italians are reading this thinking "What the fuck are you talking about?" -- I'm sorry!! xD
> 
> Anyway, thanks very much for reading. I'll try to get the ending out as soon as possible :)


End file.
